


Selfie

by bakers_impala221



Series: OTP Prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aborted Love Confession, Angst, Bisexual, Blog, Canon-Compliant, Confession, Depression, Detective, Drinking, Drunken Confession, Fix-It-Fic, Gay, In Love, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, Love Confession, M/M, Mourning, Other, Photography, Photos, Post-Reichenbach, Selfies, Semi-Slow Burn, Series, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock doesnt understand, TRF, Undying Love, aborted marriage, canon-divergent, fake death, john loves photography, non-proposal, otp prompts, post-mourning, season3 fix-it-fic, selfie - Freeform, the reichenbach falls, yeah like literally just TEH but (better) different
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:30:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: In which John wants more photos of Sherlock, and Sherlock can’t understand whyORJohn moves back into 221B a few weeks after Sherlock, starts taking photos all the time, leaves his girlfriend and won't talk to him about it, and Sherlock can't stand not knowing why....Warning (or perhaps incentive??) - eventual angst





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A part of my new series, ‘OTP Prompts’ consisting of a list of one-worded prompts (initially from an Inktober prompt list by @Kromitar, but with any one-worded/short prompt to add onto the list).  
> First prompt: 'selfie'

‘ _Smile!_ ’

  Sherlock closed his eyes as the expected light flashed brightly against his eyelids. He scowled and reopened them, peering around the room quickly before letting his gaze settle defiantly on the offensive object balanced in his friend’s hands, directly in front of his face. He let his expression fall into an easy pout.

  ‘Cheers,’ John thanked sarcastically, raising his arm in gesticulation.

  Sherlock eyed the phone wearily in distaste as John held it in front of him, his eyes focused intently on the screen as the different colours splashed over his face in various hues.

  When he’d finished his endeavour (hopefully deleting the atrocious abomination), John looked back up at him, a lovingly exasperated expression coating his features for a second, before warming back into his usual self.

  ‘Chinese tonight?’ he asked with a smile.

  Sherlock hummed in response, indifferent.

  John huffed slightly with humour and shook his head, grabbing his wallet and his jacket from where it was hung up on the back of the door.

  ‘No date with Mary, then?’ Sherlock asked suddenly, not entirely intentionally.

  John stopped in the doorway, looking back at him in surprise, ‘since when do you take interest in the affairs of other human beings?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m just… chatting,’ he tried.

  John just gave him a _look_ before answering.

  ‘No, not tonight, I, uh-’ Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly in scrutiny; John looked uncomfortable. ‘No… not tonight.’

  ‘Mhm,’ Sherlock said, feigning boredom. ‘Why not?’

  Looking a little confronted, John shuffled awkwardly on his feet. With a glance down at the floor, he replied, ‘uh- not tonight, Sherlock. Maybe I’ll tell you later.’

  Sherlock nodded unnecessarily -unseen- as John turned his back to him and rushed off down the stairs and out the front door, closing it a little harder than needed, Sherlock noted.

 

  ‘Please, Sherlock?’ John pleaded.

  ‘But _why_ , John? What are you even meant to do with it? It’s such an absurd prospect,’ Sherlock whined sullenly.

  John smiled. ‘Keep it, look at it, frame it. You could do anything, really,’ he shrugged.

  ‘What _for?’_ Sherlock replied.

  Instead of answering, John lifted up his smart phone and took a photo.

  Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder at his friend’s gleeful face and then down at the phone in his hands.

  ‘God, it’s _horrible_ ,’ he moaned, eyeing the horrendous photo, staring down in contempt at his own face as it pouted back at him.

  ‘I think it’s perfect,’ John said, grinning almost fiendishly. ‘Captures you perfectly.’

  Sherlock groaned, then glided into the living room, falling unceremoniously onto the couch and presuming his childlike pouting position.

  He could practically _feel_ John preening behind him and he huffed into the back of the sofa.

  John rolled his eyes and shuffled out of the room, a smile still wide on his face and his phone clutched possessively in his hands.

 

  It had been several weeks since the photo epidemic had begun in 221B, and Sherlock was getting irritated by the constant clicks of John’s phone as he took photo after photo after photo after photo after photo… after photo… after photo…

  It was _unbearable_.

  But the actual photography itself was merely irritating. No, what bothered him was the fact that John still hadn’t bothered to explain _why_ he felt he had to bombard him with the constant photos. And, worst of all, the fact that Sherlock couldn’t just _figure it out_.

  It made absolutely no apparent sense. One day, Sherlock had come back to 221B, a few weeks later John had moved back in with him, then a few weeks later again…

  The photos! The constant _bloody photos_.

  Sherlock groaned into the Union Jack cushion on the sofa. He’d spent so much of his time there recently that the sofa seemed to have permanently bent into his shape. And so often he was sure that John had taken some horrific photo of him face planted into the cushion. At that thought, he shuddered and made a quick mental note to scour out John’s phone and delete every one of the atrocities locked within it.

  As if on cue, John walked in through the door into the kitchen with the groceries. Sherlock braced himself for the dreaded _click,_ but when John dropped into his chair and ten minutes had past without it, Sherlock called it safe and lifted himself up off the sofa and into sitting position.

  John glanced up at him. ‘Joining us today, are we?’ he said with amusement.

  ‘Yep,’ Sherlock said shortly. ‘And apparently you are, too,’ he said, eyeing John up and down before reaching his eyes again.

  John frowned. ‘Well, yeah… why wouldn’t I?’

  Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, contemplating whether or not to give a straight answer. Opting for the former, he spoke, his tone as bored as possible, ‘Still no Mary, then?’

  John looked back down at the ground, his mouth forming the word ‘oh’ silently. He licked his lips before answering, ‘yeah, so… about that.’

  Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John took it as a sign to keep going.

  ‘I’ve, uh- called it off with Mary.’

  Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look, not bothering to conceal his interest anymore. ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  John looked uncomfortable. ‘…No reason. Just…’ he seemed thoughtful; on the edge of saying something. Seeming to opt for omission, he continued, ‘It’s not important. I just wasn’t interested anymore.’

  _You were about to marry her,_ Sherlock mused. _Why would you-_

‘So, anything in particular you want for dinner?’ John asked forcefully cheerfully.

  Sherlock shook his head distractedly.

  John jumped up, clinging onto his cheerful facade and clapping his hands together. Sherlock just narrowed his eyes in thought. ‘Well, pasta it is, then.’ Then he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

 

  Sherlock had decided to do some digging. Obviously there had to be some kind of incentive behind this horrible new hobby John had picked up on over the past month. All Sherlock had to do was find it. He was a detective, after all.

  When John went out one day, Sherlock gave him a hug on his way out (earning him a very, _very_ confused and possibly concerned look on John’s behalf). After convincing John that he was, in fact, fine, he turned back up the stairs and waited until John had left, then looked down at his prize.

  He turned on his friend’s phone, swiping to the left, and staring blankly at the screen for a second.

  After regaining himself, he thought quickly. Ten tries until the first screen disabling. Easy.

  He typed in the codes he could think of:

  His year of birth: _1979\. Incorrect. Not surprising._

  Date of birth: _0707\. Incorrect. Not surprising_

Address: _221B. Incorrect. Not surprising._

…

  By the time the timer finally got to zero again, Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his legs and back stretched out, thinking in his mind palace to pass the time as it ticked on dully slowly. Resurfacing at the exact moment the phone turned back to normal, Sherlock blinked open his eyes and grabbed up the phone from his chest, glaring at it as it sat indignantly in his hands above him.

  First four digits to his phone number: _0207\. Incorrect. Annoying._

John’s credit card number: _7437._

  The home screen flashed in front of his eyes, glaringly bright compared to the lock screen.

  Sherlock stared in astonishment, confused. _Why? Why would you choose that number, John? What does it mean?_

  Suddenly, a sound from below him startled him from his thoughts. He listened closely to the sound of the footsteps. _Too slow, too heavy to be John. Mrs Hudson, then. Fine._

  He refocused his attention on the phone. He clicked on the Photos app and a collage of photos spread out beneath his gaze. His eyes widened in a mixture of horror and awe.

  Photos of him thinking, working, walking, playing the violin were splattered over the gallery, interrupted by some of John, some of Mary (Sherlock’s stomach turned unpleasantly for a second at that, but gleefully comforted with the realisation that they were all over at least two months old), and some of various animals and plants.

  His eyes scanned over them, his horror engulfed entirely by awe, and, regrettably, some level of admiration. John wasn’t truly a horrible photographer (Sherlock would never admit that out loud, though).

  With all the photos of himself selected, his finger hovered slightly above the bin icon, debating. A sharp tang of guilt sliced through his gut at the thought of depriving John of his photos, and somehow Sherlock found himself unselecting all but the few truly horrifying ones, and deleting them, then exiting the application.

  Ignoring the sound of Mycroft’s voice resonating through his mind, and calculating the time he had left until John returned for his phone, he opened the notes application instead, deciding three minutes was enough to continue fishing.

  When nothing caught his interest, he opened the SMS app instead, scanning down the short list of names. His eyes caught on one name: Mary, and he selected it, waiting impatiently for the messages to load.

  They stopped yesterday.

 _John, 3_ _rd_ _January:_ Can we meet tomorrow? We have to talk

 _Mary:_ okay

 

 _John, 7_ _th_ _January:_ I think I left one of my old coats at yours. Can I come round later to get it?

 _Mary:_ Oh, are you sure you could bear leaving your boyfriend alone for that long, John? So brave

 _John:_ I’m coming round at 7

 

 _John, 15_ _th_ _January:_ I know you’re not interested in talking, but I think you should hear me out

 _Mary:_ why would I do that?

 _John:_ Because it might make you hate me less

 _Mary:_ I doubt that

 _John:_ Mary, please

 

 _Mary, 17_ _th_ _January:_ Fine. When?

 _John:_ tomorrow at 6 ok for you?

 _Mary:_ fine

 

When the front door of Baker St slammed shut, Sherlock panicked. He closed the app and put the phone to sleep, walked over to the table in the middle of the two main windows of the flat and put down the phone quickly, before striding across the room and sitting in his personal chair. He just managed to steeple his hands under his chin in time as John walked into the room, hair ruffled in the London wind, cheeks blushed and gorgeous as all bloody hell, and a concerned frown on his face as he crossed the room, grabbed his phone as he eyed Sherlock before waving to him quickly as he walked back out.

When he couldn’t see John’s retreating back anymore, Sherlock slumped back in his chair, chest heaving as he tried to manage his breathing.

With more questions than answers, Sherlock got up and walked to his bedroom, closing the door behind him absently and getting into bed.

 

  It took another three days of scouring the living room, kitchen and even the bathroom of the flat, John’s phone, laptop and his room, before Sherlock stumbled upon _anything_ of use in his case.

  Lestrade had rung with a few boring cases Sherlock deemed unimportant (‘It’s a _four_ , John. I don’t need to waste my time wandering around some dull crime scene even Scotland Yard could decipher if they really put their idiotic minds to some use. I have more important matters to attend.’) but other than that, he’d had no contact with the outside world, other than the one time John dragged him out for a walk, complaining that he hadn’t left the flat in weeks and that it was unhealthy for him. (Sherlock had submitted only when John had threatened to get Mycroft involved.)

  Somehow, the answer apparently lay in possibly the most obvious place of all, and Sherlock had only just managed to think of it.

  With his computer open (well… John’s. Sherlock’s was in his bedroom- or some other place equally as bothersome to get to), he started Chrome in attempt to hack John’s emails again, when something far more obvious appeared instead.

  Rereading all of it, all of a sudden the pieces clicked together like a puzzle and the answer was glaringly obvious. And all Sherlock knew was what he had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus, metaphorically:  
> John: obsesses with using his heart on Sherlock  
> Sherlock: *confused and overwhelmed*  
> ...  
> Sherlock: *doesn’t hear him doing so one day*  
> Sherlock: whats up with Mary  
> John: *sweats* nothing  
> John:  
> John: *jumping up* any preference for sex?  
> Sherlock: no, im busy figuring out ur relationship status, thanks  
> ...  
> Thank you, TJLC, you have ruined me


	2. Chapter 2

  Sherlock stood by their front door, his hand clutching his phone tightly between his fingers as he waited impatiently for the familiar sound of footsteps trudging tiredly up the stairs to their shared rooms.

  He waited for exactly seven point three minutes before the door to Baker St opened below him. His heart sped up and he clutched his phone tighter in anticipation.

  Then, with perfect timing as John walked through the door frame and into their living room, Sherlock yelled, ‘smile!’ and he stepped out, holding out his phone, and took a photo.

  The screen went dark for a millisecond, then lit up again, adorn with their smiling faces (one a little more shocked than the other) and Sherlock looked down at it proudly.

  John looked up at him, smiling, the situation seeming to have begun catching up with him. His smile grew, ‘what’s with the sudden change of heart?’

  Then he stopped for a second and his smile disappeared as he glanced around the rooms of their flat, ‘oh no, where is it?’

  Sherlock frowned. ‘Where is what?’

  ‘The mess -or whatever it is- that you’re trying to distract me from.’

  Sherlock’s eyes glazed over just a little. ‘Nowhere.’

  John squinted up at him for a moment, debating. When he seemed to settle on an answer, a smile smile crossed his face. ‘Why the photo, then?’ he asked, his voice softer than usual.

  Sherlock shrugged as though indifferent. ‘I saw you liked them. Thought I’d try it out.’

  John nodded towards the phone, ‘it’s nice,’ he said with a laugh as he shrugged off his coat and turned away to hang it up on the back of the door.

  Sherlock smiled softly at the photo, ‘yeah.’

  When he felt eyes on him, he looked up and caught his friend’s gaze for less than a second before dropping his smile and turning away, embarrassed.

  John shuffled over to his chair and sat down heavily, watching with amusement as the taller man fumbled with turning off his phone before joining him by sitting in the seat opposite.

  John eyed him for a moment, looking unsure. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly in observation before speaking lowly, ‘what happened?’

  John met his eyes in momentary surprise before seeming to give in as he settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Leaning over against the back of his seat, he eyed Sherlock warily. Then opened his mouth anxiously.

  ‘-Hold on,’ Sherlock said suddenly, standing up abruptly and exiting for the kitchen, leaving behind one startled John. He took down a bottle of beer from the cupboard and returned with it, and two glasses held precariously in his hands.

  Handing one out to John, he poured them each a glass and settled the bottle on the floor between them. ‘Go on,’ he said, sitting back in his seat.

  ‘Mm, cheers,’ John mumbled as he raised the glass to his mouth.

  Sherlock looked across at him expectantly, taking a sip from his own cup. John frowned at him, ‘I thought you weren’t big on drinking?’

  He shrugged, ‘I have my moments. Do proceed.’

  John laughed. ‘Yeah, well, so… I called it off with Mary, as you know.’

  ‘Yes. Why?’ he almost demanded.

  John gave him a _look_ before continuing.

  ‘I… wouldn’t have been a good husband,’ he said slowly.

  Sherlock frowned, disagreeing. ‘What makes you say that?’

  John seemed thoughtful for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t know about your past, but if you’ve ever been in a relationship… girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever-’

  ‘Boyfriend,’ Sherlock said abruptly.

  John stopped and stared at him. ‘Oh, okay, so you’ve had-’

  ‘No.’

  John frowned in confusion. ‘So…’

  ‘I’d never have had a girlfriend. I mean- I wouldn’t. Won’t,’ he fumbled, ridiculously nervous.

  ‘Right…’ John said, seeming to consider something. ‘So you don’t like… women.’

  ‘Girlfriends aren’t my area, no.’

  ‘Okay, so… if you’ve ever had a boyfriend, I guess-’

  ‘-I haven’t.’

  John stopped, reconsidering his statement.

  ‘Well, I have,’ he said. ‘-A girlfriend, I mean. I mean… I’ve had girlfriends -relationships! And uh- well, the thing is… sometimes it just doesn’t work, like you… choose them because you thought you needed to, rather than because you… knew you truly wanted it…’ he rambled. ‘If that makes sense.’

  Sherlock nodded slowly, understanding unempathetically.

  ‘Well… I guess that Mary just… didn’t feel right. Like, it seemed right back when…’ he seemed to choke on his words. ‘When, you know,’ he gestured to the room. ‘And now I guess things are different and it doesn’t seem right anymore. Things have changed,’ he said, taking a large gulp from his glass and then sliding off his chair to refill it from the bottle resting on the floor between them.

  Sherlock looked down at him, watching him pour his drink clumsily, his mind faintly fogged with the alcohol, and, absently mimicking John, he took a large sip of his own, slightly intensifying the buzz.

  When John had settled back in his chair, a silence settled around them. With a sudden need to fill it, Sherlock half-blurted, ‘I almost had one once.’

  John blinked slowly, ‘had what?’

  ‘A boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh,’ John said, his unspoken question obvious.

  After a moment of silence, Sherlock answered.

‘We went to uni together. He needed help with one of the assignments and actually came to me for it,’ he smiled faintly. ‘After a few sessions, we’d started talking. He told me that he’d been planning to be a solider, but his parents wanted him in uni; that his family lived in a flat in London and were thinking of moving to Italy; he told me the courses he’d chosen instead of being a soldier, and how they hadn’t been what his parents -dad especially- had wanted, but it had become the compromise between them -I already knew most of it, of course, but I didn’t say anything. I told him what I was studying and how my favourite subject was chemistry. And then I said how I wanted to be a detective and he mentioned the first time we met and got uncomfortable.’

  John looked over at him, his eyes soft, but all Sherlock could see was his dorm room, his first friend in over a decade sitting next to him awkwardly.

  ‘In our first session I deduced that he’d been planning to be a solider, and he seemed pretty freaked out about it. When I explained, he just said it was invasive and a little freaky, so I never told him any of my other deductions from then onward. And of course I brought up being a detective just the once and couldn’t mention it again after what happened.’

  John looked strangely sad. ‘Well, if he couldn’t handle your intelligence, I don’t think you were compatible.’

  Sherlock looked thoughtful. ‘In hindsight, I’d have to agree. But it had been the most positive response I’d gotten to date.’

  John went silent at that.

  Sherlock gulped down more beer and continued. ‘One night, he asked me if I was seeing anyone. I knew he was planning to ask me out, and I would’ve said yes, but I panicked. I told him I wasn’t interested in people and he shut up. A few days later he left the uni. Said he was going home, but he was clearly planning to finally go off and fight.’

  John frowned, and Sherlock realised he was connecting the two events.

  ‘-It was unrelated,’ Sherlock said abruptly, ending the line of thought clearly going through John’s mind. ‘I mean… perhaps I helped him see that he shouldn’t deny himself the freedom to choose his life just because of his parents, but he didn’t leave because of that night...’ Sherlock slid down slightly in his chair.

‘I don’t think,’ he mumbled absently, taking another sip of beer.

 

 

  John stretched out his legs and Sherlock felt as they touched his lightly from where they were tucked in front of him. He shifted slightly on the floor, his back and legs sore from the hard ground, but he felt too content and far too tired to try finding a more comfortable position.

  Instead, he opted for stretching out his own legs, and he let them fall parallel to John’s, his right leg crossed over the left at his knees.

  John leaned forward, his legs shuffling so they were pressed up against Sherlock’s as he refilled his glass. Words came to mind and Sherlock’s drunken filter, useless as ever, didn’t do anything to stop them as he found them coming out of his mouth almost of their own accord.

  ‘What was your worst relationship?’ he asked, his words slurred.

  John giggled for no conceivable reason and Sherlock took the bottle still clutched in his hand, causing John to tip over slightly. Using his arm to prevent himself from falling, he put his hand down on Sherlock’s knee and pushed himself up slowly.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sherlock murmured quietly enough he wasn’t sure John would be able to hear.

  John laughed again, ‘mm, I don’t mind,’ he mumbled.

  Sherlock smiled. ‘Anytime.’

  John looked up at him, grinning absurdly. ‘Mmm, well I can’t remember anything specifically. I s’pose there was Jen… Jernt? Something like that. That year with the woman, you know. The _Woman_. The one I thought you loved-’

  ‘I did not,’ Sherlock said, dramatically offended, a hand held lazily to his chest for effect.

  John giggled. ‘Good. That’s good…’ he said with a yawn.

  ‘Best relationship?’ he asked, attempting to prod him awake.

  ‘Mm?’ John said, his eyes closed.

  ‘John!’ Sherlock said, a hint of urgency in his voice. ‘John, best relationship. Pay attention.’

  ‘Uhh…’ he opened his eyes slowly. He put his right elbow on the armchair behind him and the other on his knee. Lowering his head to rest on his left hand, he stared thoughtfully into the empty fireplace. ‘We need a fire,’ he said absently.

  ‘John!’ Sherlock repeated.

  ‘What? Oh, right, yeah. Uh… best relationship. Umm…’ he trailed off.

  After about ten seconds of silence, in which Sherlock was about to break with another alarm, John spoke.

  ‘Well… you,’ he said slowly.

  Sherlock stared at him, frozen and unsure what to do. About half a minute passed of uncomfortable silence, his mind whirring and yet empty at the same time, shocked into malfunction before he managed to sort of ‘reboot’ and get something out in response, ‘you… you mean…’

  ‘Yes?’ John asked, a humourous smile on his face.

  ‘I’m your…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Best… friend?’

  John’s smile faded. He swallowed thickly as his eyes lingered on the floor, before finally managing to look up and meet his gaze. His eyes were full of a harsh (yet soft) sincerity when he spoke, as if willing Sherlock to catch the truth behind his words.

  ‘Yeah, of course you are,’ he said, his gaze impossibly warm, and his smile impossibly soft. ‘Of course… you’re my best friend.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sherlock said as his chest filled with an indescribable warmth. It spread all through his body as he whispered, ‘how?’

  ‘How, what?’ John asked.

  ‘How did _I_ get to be the best friend of... you?’ Sherlock asked, his voice full of incredulity. ‘You: the best and the kindest and the wisest human begin I have _ever_ … had the _good fortune_ of knowing?’

  John slid down so he was laying on his side, his head resting on his arm outstretched so his body almost formed the shape of a U. He looked up at him, his eyes full of… something? Companionship? Friendship? Something akin to both these things, yet not quite either of them. Sherlock couldn’t quite put a word to it.

  And then he watched John smile as he said. ‘You were exactly as you are. Exactly _who_ you are. That’s what I love.’

  And all of a sudden Sherlock had his word, and he almost gasped in amazement.

  _How could I ever deserve you -deserve_ this _, my dear John?_

Sherlock reached out to take the beer bottle (their nth between them) he’d discarded beforehand and glanced around quickly in a half-hearted attempt to locate his glass before he shrugged slightly and drank straight from the bottle.

  He put the bottle back on the floor and John picked it up and drank some as Sherlock let his head fall back against his chair.

  ‘Why did you really end it with Mary?’ he asked suddenly.

  John opened his eyes again (Sherlock estimated he had somewhere around… ten minutes? Probably. Until he fell asleep) and looked up at him, blinking tiredly.

  ‘What was it like?’ he asked, not answering the question.

  ‘What was what like?’

  ‘Being dead?’ John said. ‘Well… not dead. But… pretend-dead,’ he elaborated. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Sherlock sighed and slid down so he was also lying on the floor, his head propped up on his arm, elbow bent in an acute angle.

  ‘It was horrible,’ he said after some time.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You weren’t there. You can’t even imagine…’ Sherlock trailed off. Hurting.

  ‘Well, exactly. Paint me a photo,’ he mumbled, missing the message.

  ‘It’s “picture.” And well, I s’pose I had to do a lot of undercover stuff, you know?’ he said.

  ‘To take down Moriarty’s network?’ John asked quietly.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And have you?’ John asked, turning his head to face him. ‘Taken it down, that is.’

  Sherlock sighed. _I doubt it._

 _‘_ To the best of my abilities, John.’

  John huffed a laugh and nudged him with his free arm. ‘So bloody brilliantly then?’

  Sherlock just smiled. John laughed again.

  Then all of a sudden, he was in a sort of mild fit, giggling into the carpet beneath them. Watching him fondly, Sherlock smiled -a special, personal smile- meant only for his friend… only when he wasn’t watching.

  ‘I missed it,’ he said softly.

  John regained some level of composure and breathed out, ‘what?’

  Sherlock didn’t reply and John calmed down and silence fell over the two of the once again.

  Breaking the silence, Sherlock spoke quietly. ‘It’s funny, really. Me, being “pretend-dead.”’

  John gave him his best tired/drunk-version of an inquisitive look.

  He inhaled and sighed before continuing. ‘It’s funny… ‘cause in all that time I was only really pretending to be dead. But most of that time I actually felt like I was.’

  When Sherlock didn’t hear any reply, he looked down to check his conversation partner hadn’t lost consciousness, and his breath caught in his throat as he met tear-filled eyes. Astonished, he opened his mouth in question, but couldn’t get any words out.

  He found he didn’t have to when John blinked against his tears, causing some to drip down his face as he spoke. ‘I felt like that, too,’ he whispered.

  Then he closed his eyes, overwhelmed, as he continued. ‘Sometimes I’d just open my drawer and stare at my gun for hours. At some points, there almost didn’t seem like any point,’ he huffed a short, humourless laugh. ‘I was so convinced I was already dead.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Mary helped with that. She gave me some kind of comfort, like… feelings. True emotions. You know… beyond just… sadness or emptiness, that kind of thing,’ he said slowly. ‘But then you came _back_ , and I just…’ He reopened his eyes. ‘I realised how empty those feelings were by comparison to any kind of… life you gave to me.’

  He inhaled and then breathed out a sigh. He chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking, before settling on his words: ‘You wanted to know why I broke up with Mary… Well, it was because you came back… and I realised I had a second chance.’

 

_“26th_ _April. A Few Pictures._

_I was going through my phone and I found a few pictures I’d taken during some of our cases._

_It might seem a bit odd but I’ve hardly any pictures of him. I remember him once saying how everybody was so busy photographing their lives for Facebook and Twitter that they were forgetting how to live. “I’m far too busy to be Instagramming, John!” He was annoyed at the time because Mrs Hudson was going through this phase of taking photos of her breakfast."_

 

_…A second chance with you._

  Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

‘And that’s the reason you took all the photos,’ he said eventually. (Not a question.)

  (He replied anyway) ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A second chance… after regretting the first time.’

  He heard John breathe shakily next to him. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which means you regretted something last time… something with _me._ ’

  (Heart beat fast.)

  He looked down at John. (Pupils dilated. Breathing shallow. Quick. Nervous.)

  John swallowed thickly and reached out to grab the beer bottle unsuccessfully.

  Instead, it found Sherlock’s phone and closed around it.

  ‘I’m tired,’ John breathed, sliding his hand across the floor to proffer the mobile.

  (I love you.)

  ‘I know,’ Sherlock said, taking it from him.

  He leaned forwards slightly and all of a sudden their faces were about two inches apart. (Maybe three? Maybe one? Maybe half? How did they get here?)

  He smiled. ‘What did you regret?’

  John raised his hand slowly and put it on his friend’s shoulder. (Neck? Face?)

  Sherlock let his gaze fall down his face to his lips, then drew them up again.

  _(So much more than you could ever know.)_

‘Nothing and everything,’ he said.

  (Silence, then.) ‘Me too.’

  And one of them closed the distance (Sherlock? John? Both?).

  It doesn’t matter, he decided.

  (Finally.)

  John smiled against his lips.

  ‘I love you.’


End file.
